I
There were quite a few wise boys in Little Italy who thought that
Rico’s sensational rise was a fluke. The matter was talked about a good
deal and he was unfavorably compared with Nig Po and Monk de Angelo,
former leaders, and there were even those who considered him inferior
to Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori, and Joe Sansone. This confusion arose
because Rico was not understood. He had none of the outward signs of
greatness. Neither the great strength and hairiness of Pepi, nor the
dash and effrontery of Ottavio Vettori, nor the maniacal temper of
Joe Sansone. He was small, pale and quiet. In spite of his new finery
he wasn’t much to look at. He did not swagger, he seldom raised his
voice, he never bragged. In other words, the general run of Little
Italians could find nothing in him to exaggerate; they could not make
a legendary figure of him because the qualities he possessed were
qualities they could not comprehend. The only thing that redeemed
him in their eyes was his reputation as a killer.
Rico was brave enough, but he did not flaunt his bravery like Kid Bean.
Rico was cunning enough, but cunning was not an obsession with him as
it was with Sam Vettori. Rico was capable of sudden audacity, but even
his audacity had a sort of precision and was entirely without the dash
of Ottavio’s.
Rico, while he was small and pale, was capable of great endurance,
but this endurance of his was nothing compared to Killer Pepi’s
inhuman vitality. Rico’s great strength lay in his single-mindedness,
his energy and his self-discipline. The Little Italians could not
appreciate qualities so abstract.
The men that were considered his rivals were really not to be compared
with him. Killer Pepi was strong and courageous, but he was very
erratic and a drug-addict. Ottavio Vettori was daring enough and cool
in a tight place, he could shoot straight and he feared nothing, but
he was light-minded, dissipated his energies on all sorts of follies,
and ran after every woman that looked at him. Joe Sansone, though
brave enough and dependable when it came to a sudden action, was a
periodic drunkard, and, generally speaking, nervous and unreliable.
Sam Vettori, a good man once, had let his congenital lethargy and his
congenital love of trickery overcome him; he had become petty and had
entirely lost the initiative which, years ago, had put him at the head
of the gang. Now he was not even taken seriously by the men he had once
led, and but for Rico’s authority, he would have sunken into obscurity.
The case of Sam Vettori was a strange one, without its parallel in gang
annals. In Little Italy there is no such thing as abdication unless it
is accompanied by flight. The old gang leader who is superseded has
two alternatives: flight or death. Sam had escaped both. His growing
inability to make decisions had lost him his power, but it had also
saved his life. Rico did not consider him dangerous. But that was not
all. Rico considered him useful. That saved him from flight. With the
proper guidance, Sam Vettori was an asset to any gang. He was wise and
he knew the ropes.
Sam was docile; not that his hatred for Rico had abated; but
things were breaking good, money was rolling in, and Sam loved money
above all things. The Vettori gang had never known such prosperity
before. Sam was quick to see where his advantage lay. Rico could be
killed. Scabby, who hated Rico for some fancied slight and who, for
this reason, was faithful to Sam, would have done it. But what would
have been the good of that? Sam knew that he was through as a gang
leader. With Rico dead, there would be a mad scramble for leadership.
Besides, Rico had the devil’s own luck, and Scabby might fail. If he
failed, Scabby’s life and his own wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime.
No, Sam Vettori accepted a somewhat odd situation philosophically and
prospered.
II
Blondy Belle lolled back in her chair and put her fat hands on the
table. Rico sat opposite her with his hat tilted over his eyes.
“Well,” said Blondy Belle, “I guess that’s it, ain’t it, Rico?”
Rico nodded.
“I told you not to give that bird a chance. He thinks you’re soft.”
Rico smiled and twisted his diamond ring round and round.
“He raised the split to fifty percent, and the books were straight.”
“Well,” said Blondy, “he couldn’t stand prosperity. Listen, you’re
gonna let him have it, ain’t you?”
Blondy hated Little Arnie so that she couldn’t sleep at night. She
couldn’t understand Rico’s lenience.
“No,” said Rico.
“Hell,” said Blondy, “you’re getting soft.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico; “you want me to get my neck stretched over a
dirty double-crosser that ain’t worth a good bullet? Listen, I’m gonna
run that bird out of town.”
Blondy was disgusted. She started to get to her feet, but Rico reached
across the table and pushed her back into her chair.
“Sit down,” he said, “and cut the funny stuff. If you women ain’t
awful! Use your head, that’s what you got it for.”
Blondy sulked. Across the room the orchestra started up and couples
crowded out into the roped-off dance floor.
“Don’t they ever get sick of dancing?” said Blondy, in a bad temper.
Rico got to his feet.
“Listen,” he said, “get yourself a cab and beat it. Go home and take
some aspirin and hit the hay. If you’d lay off that bad liquor you
wouldn’t always be beefing.”
Blondy looked at Rico for a moment, then she said:
“Aw, sit down, Rico. I’ll snap out of it.”
“No,” said Rico, “I got business to look after and I’m getting sick of
this beefing. See, I’m getting sick. Any more of this kind of stuff and
I’m gonna get me another woman. Hell, I might as well talk to Flaherty
as you.”
Blondy got to her feet without speaking. Rico never kidded; he meant
what he said. Blondy was not used to men like Rico. She often
wondered why it was she couldn’t seem to get any hold on him.
Silently they walked around the little, roped-off dance floor. Rico
told one of the waiters to get him a cab, then, to pass the time, he
started putting nickels in a slot machine. After the third nickel, the
bell rang and Rico won fifty cents; on the sixth nickel he won again.
“Ain’t that good!” said Rico.
He called the man behind the counter.
“Say,” he said, “have you seen anybody fooling with this machine?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I seen Ottavio doing something to it.”
Rico laughed.
“Can you beat that petty crook! He’ll be robbing blind men next. Say,
tell Sam to get all the machines overhauled. What the hell! He might as
well hand out nickels over the counter.”
Blondy laughed, glad of this opportunity to put on a change of front.
“Boy, you don’t miss anything,” she said.
“Well,” said Rico, serious, “what’s the use of letting somebody gyp
you?”
The waiter they had sent for the cab came to tell them that it was
outside.
Blondy put her hand on Rico’s arm.
“Listen, wise boy,” she said, “you got the right dope about that Little
Arnie business. Run him out, that’s O.K., but do it up brown.”
“You watch,” said Rico.
He put her in the cab.
“Gonna give me a ring tonight, Rico?” she asked.
“Can’t say.”
“Well, don’t let me ketch you with any more dark hairs on your coat.”
“Can that!” said Rico.
Blondy slammed the cab door. Rico stood and watched the cab till it
disappeared. Blondy was just like any other woman. Now she had got
to the grand rush stage. Always beefing about something. Rico stood
looking down the street. It was hot and the city sweltered, but now and
then you could feel a breath of lake wind. He looked up at the
sky. Stars everywhere.
“It’s a swell night,” said Rico.
Contrary to custom, he decided to walk down to the news-stand and get
a paper. Since his rise, he seldom went out unaccompanied; never at
night. Otero, Killer Pepi and Bat Carillo had constituted themselves
his body-guard and one of them was always within calling distance.
They were jealous of this privilege and sometimes quarreled among
themselves. But the night tempted Rico; the atmosphere of The Palermo
was vile, and the lake breeze was fresh and cool.
He had gone scarcely half a block when a large touring-car with the
curtains closed passed him. He saw the car, noticing especially the
closed curtains and the fact that the driver was hugging the curb,
and, fearing the worst, he looked about for a shelter, but, as the car
passed him and went on, he paid no further attention to it. Stopping in
front of a lighted drugstore window he took out his watch and looked at
it. One o’clock! Kid Bean and the Killer ought to be back any minute
now. Suddenly he looked up. The big touring car had turned and was
coming back at full speed with its exhaust roaring. Rico cursed himself
for his carelessness and reached under his armpit for his gun. But the
car was abreast of him now and three guns blazed. Rico felt a searing
pain in his shoulder and fell to the ground. His gun was stuck in its
holster and he couldn’t get it out. One of the men leaned out of the
car and emptied his gun at Rico, who, helpless on the ground, heard the
bullets sing.
“A goddam fine shot you are!” said Rico.
The big touring-car turned a corner and disappeared. Rico got to his
feet and walked into the drugstore. The screen-door banged behind
him and the clerk, who had been lying down behind the counter, got
unsteadily to his feet.
“My God,” he stammered, “what was all the popping for?”
Then he noticed that there was a torn place on the shoulder of Rico’s
coat.
“Was they after you, mister?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “I got brushed. Give me a roll of bandages.”
The clerk stood there with his mouth open. People began to come
into the store. Some of them knew who Rico was and stood staring at him.
“They put a bullet through my window,” said the clerk.
“Listen,” said Rico, “go get me a package of bandages.”
The clerk finally came to himself and went for the bandages. A crowd
had gathered in the street and now there were so many people in the
drugstore that the people on the outside couldn’t get in. Rico stood
with his back to the counter, watching. Blood had begun to drip from
his coat-sleeve. Before the clerk returned with the bandages, Jastrow,
the famous Little Italy cop, pushed his way through the crowd, followed
almost immediately by Joe Massara.
“Well,” said Jastrow, “somebody finally put one in you, did they, Rico?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Joe Massara came over and put his hand on Rico’s arm. Joe’s face was
white.
“Hurt you much, boss?”
“No,” said Rico; “what the hell you doing way over here?”
“I got tipped off,” said Joe. “I couldn’t get you on the phone and I
began to get nervous. We’d’ve made it only my cab driver got hooked for
speeding.”
“Who gave you the tip?” Jastrow demanded.
“Go press the bricks,” said Rico, “this ain’t your funeral.”
Jastrow laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “don’t you know that the Old Man’s taken an awful
interest in you?”
“Well, tell him the cops couldn’t get me no other way so they hired a
couple of gunmen.”
Joe laughed. Jastrow laughed also and taking out his notebook began to
write in it. The clerk came with the bandages. Joe took them from him
and paid him. Before they could get started, Killer Pepi and Otero came
shoving their way through the crowd.
“Hello, boys,” said Jastrow, looking up from his little book, “your
boss got nudged by a hunk of lead.”
“So they tell me,” said the Killer.
Rico said:
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Jastrow went in front, clearing the way, followed by Otero and Killer
Pepi, who had Rico between them. Joe brought up the rear. People were
lined to the car-tracks; lights blazed in all the houses along the
street, and men hung from the lamp-posts. When they came out of the
store, the crowd was so thick that they were unable to get any farther.
Jastrow took out his nightstick and flourished it, but the sight of it
was enough, the crowd made a path.
As they walked along Joe came up close to Rico and whispered:
“Little Arnie.”
Rico nodded. Pepi heard Joe.
“Yeah,” he said, “and I’m gonna plug him tonight.”
“There won’t be no plugging,” said Rico.
“Aw, hell,” said Pepi.
Otero was excited.
“Yes, yes, Rico,” he cried.
“Shut up, you birds,” said Rico; “who the hell’s running this show?”
A crowd was waiting for them in front of The Palermo. Bat Carillo
and Ottavio Vettori began to yell as soon as they saw that Rico was on
his feet.
Jastrow turned around.
“Well, I guess I done my duty.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “come in and have a drink.”
“Nothing doing,” said Jastrow, then he shouted: “You birds quit your
damn yelling and get in off the sidewalk.”
Everybody laughed. They all liked Jastrow, who had the reputation
of being on the square. Rico went in escorted by a mob of Little
Italians. In the club people were standing on the tables; the orchestra
was playing loudly; and Sam Vettori, in the middle of the deserted
dance-floor, was waving his arms wildly and bellowing.
When they saw Rico there was a tumult.
“Rico! Rico! Rico!”
Killer Pepi and Otero, intoxicated by the excitement, grabbed each
other and began to dance. Joe waved the bandages. Rico took off his hat
and smiled.
On the way up the stairs Rico turned to Joe and said:
“Go get The Sheeny.”
Killer Pepi took Rico by the arm.
“He’s upstairs now, boss,” he said; “the Kid got plugged.”
“How’d you make out?” Rico inquired.
“O.K.,” said Killer Pepi; “we was making a get-away on the third stand
when one of the guys plugged the Kid. He ain’t hurt much. Just skinned
him.”
Killer Pepi and Kid Bean had robbed twenty-five filling-stations in the
last two weeks.
“All right,” said Rico, “you guys have been on the up and up. Split the
money two ways.”
“That’s the talk, boss,” said the Killer.
Otero knocked at the door. Joe Sansone’s face appeared at the grating,
then the door swung open.
The Sheeny was working on Kid Bean. The Kid was lying on the card
table, smoking a cigarette. His shirt was off and there was a smear of
blood on his hairy chest. When he saw Rico he said:
“They damn near hit the target, boss.”
He pointed to a pierced heart tattooed on his chest. He was as proud of
his tattooing as a Maori chief.
“The boss got plugged,” said Pepi.
“What!” yelled the Kid, sitting up; “go fix him up, Sheeny.”
He gave The Sheeny a push. But Rico said:
“Finish up the Kid first. I can wait.”
“Only jist got to bandage him yet,” said The Sheeny with his
ingratiating smile.
The Sheeny was a graduate doctor, but he had been sent up for an
illegal operation and his license had been revoked. He said his name
was Lazarro, but nobody believed him and everybody referred to him
simply as The Sheeny.
Rico took off his coat and shirt, and sat waiting. His wound had
stopped bleeding.
Joe Massara came over and stood by his chair. Joe’s big cut for an
inside job had pulled him back to the fold. He never talked any
more about quitting the racket. The Courtney affair had blown over
apparently, and he had regained his confidence.
“Joe,” said Rico, “how come they gave you the tip?”
“Well,” said Joe, “I ain’t sure, but I think it was an outsider that
didn’t know nobody but me. He sure had the dope all right. He said the
guys were gonna park at twelve. They didn’t expect you out till two or
three.”
“A fine bunch of gunmen Arnie picked!”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
The Kid climbed off the table and stood feeling his chest.
“Boy, I thought I was plugged for sure.”
“They just bounce off of you,” said Pepi.
The Sheeny began to bathe Rico’s wound.
“’Tain’t much,” he said, “but it pays to be careful.”
When The Sheeny had got Rico bandaged, Rico put on his shirt and sat
smoking. Bat Carillo and Ottavio Vettori, whom he had sent for, came in
and sat down beside him. The Sheeny put on his hat.
“Well,” he said, smiling at Rico, “I guess I’m done. If you guys have
any trouble with them wounds let me know.”
Rico got his billfold and gave The Sheeny a fifty.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said The Sheeny, bowing.
Joe Sansone let him out.
Rico said:
“Now, listen, you birds, tonight’s the big clean-up. If these guys want
trouble, why, that’s just what we’re looking for.”
“You bet,” said Killer Pepi.
“Now,” Rico went on, “I got things fixed with Joe Peeper and I’m gonna
to give Little Arnie the grand rush right away. I want Killer Pepi and
Otero and Ottavio to go with me.”
“How about me?” demanded Joe Sansone.
“You too, Joe. And you, Bat, I want you to take your gang and smash up
Jew Mike’s. Run everybody out and then smash the place. If Little Arnie
wants trouble, why that’s what we got the most of. Got it?”
“O.K.,” said Bat, “how about the rods?”
“Don’t use ’em,” said Rico; “Jew Mike’s yellow and he won’t put up no
fight.”
“Them guys of mine sure are hard to hold on to,” said Carillo,
grinning.
“That’s your job,” said Rico. “We got to watch this plugging stuff with
Flaherty on our trail.”
“O.K., boss,” said Carillo.
III
When the doorman saw Rico get out of the automobile he stood stunned,
then, pulling himself together, he made an attempt to run. But Pepi
crossed the pavement in two strides, grabbed him by the collar and
pushed him ahead of him up the stairs.
“Listen, Handsome,” said Pepi, “you tell the look-out we’re O.K. or
they’ll bury you.”
At the head of the stairs the doorman spoke to the look-out through the
shutter.
“These birds are all right,” he said.
The look-out opened the door and Pepi shoved a gun against him.
“Turn your back, Buddy,” said Pepi, “and march straight ahead of
me.”
Rico, followed by Joe Sansone, Ottavio Vettori, and Otero, climbed the
long flight of stairs and entered the lobby. The lobby was deserted
except for two or three couples. Beyond it, through a big arched
doorway, they could see the crowded roulette wheels. Rico caught up
with Pepi and said to the doorman:
“Where’s Joe Peeper?”
The doorman had an agonized look. He was sure they were going to kill
him. He just stood there, unable to force himself to speak.
“Say,” said Pepi, “speak up.”
The doorman pointed to a door.
“He’s in with the boss, is he?” said Rico.
The doorman nodded.
“Yeah,” said the look-out, eager to get in good, “Joe’s in there with
the boss and a couple of other guys.”
“All right,” said Rico, “now, Pepi, if the door’s locked, do your
stuff.”
Pepi could force the heaviest door with his shoulder.
Joe Sansone tried the door; it was locked.
“Now,” said Rico, “Pepi’ll force the door. You cover him, Joe, in case
somebody in there gets nervous and pulls a gat. I’ll follow you. Otero,
you stay out here and don’t let nobody in. You watch this pair of hard
guys here, Ottavio.” Rico jerked his thumb toward the look-out and the
doorman.
“You don’t have to watch us,” said the doorman.
They all laughed.
“All right, Pepi,” said Rico.
Pepi hunched his shoulders and flung himself against the door. It
opened with a crash. They saw four startled men rise half way out of
their chairs and stand staring. Joe Peeper cried:
“It’s Rico!”
Pepi was on his hands and knees in the middle of the room, but Joe
Sansone stepped in behind him and covered the four men with his big
automatic. Rico came in, took off his hat and bowed.
“Hello, Arnie,” he said; “how’s business?”
Little Arnie sat with his mouth slightly open. As a rule Little
Arnie was imperturbable. He hid an excess of both cunning and timidity
behind a cold, repellent, sallow Jewish mask. But this cyclonic entry
was too much for him. His mask had slipped, revealing a pale, terrified
countenance.
“Well,” he said, “what’s the game?”
Joe Peeper, who was in Rico’s pay, said:
“Pull up a chair, you guys.”
Pepi found two chairs. Joe Sansone and Rico sat down; Pepi stood behind
Rico’s chair.
Little Arnie turned to the two men sitting beside him. They were
strangers to Rico and they looked tough.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” said Arnie, “but it’s a private
row, so you guys better beat it.”
Rico said very quietly:
“Nobody’s gonna leave this room.”
One of the toughs shouted:
“Think not, wop! Well, who the hell’s gonna stop us.”
Before Rico could reply, Joe Sansone said:
“Me, I’m gonna stop you, see! And I ain’t gentle. I’m just itching
to put some lead in a couple of hard guys.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, smiling, “you guys are invited to this private
party.”
The two men looked at Arnie, who sat tapping his desk with a pencil.
“Say,” said one, “you sure got a fine bunch of friends, Arnie.”
“Yeah,” said Arnie.
Pepi laughed and said:
“Yeah, he sure has. Arnie, you ought to had better sense than to get a
couple of outside yaps to bump Rico off.”
Nobody said anything. Arnie took out a cigar and lit it. The two
strangers sat staring at Rico. Pepi sat staring at them. Finally he
asked:
“Where you guys from?”
The men looked uneasily at Arnie. Little by little they were losing
their nerve.
“Speak up,” said Pepi, “where you guys from?”
“We’re from Detroit,” said one of the men.
“Where the hell’s that?” Joe Sansone inquired. “I never heard of it.”
“Say,” said Pepi, “don’t you know that tough guys like you
oughtn’t to be running around loose. No sir. You’re liable to get
arrested for firing a rod in the city limits.”
“Listen,” said one of the men from Detroit, “what you guys got against
us? We ain’t done nothing. We just got in.”
They were thoroughly intimidated.
Arnie, who had recovered his poise, said:
“Well, Rico, what’s the talk? Let’s have it.”
Pepi and Joe Sansone both started to talk at once, but Rico motioned
for them to be quiet.
“Arnie,” said Rico, “you’re through. If you ain’t out of town by
tomorrow morning, you won’t never leave town except in a box.”
Arnie said nothing but sat staring at the smoke rising from his cigar.
“In the first place,” Rico went on, “you been double-crossing me for
two months. In the second place you hire these bums here to pop me. Now
I guess that’s about all.”
Arnie laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “somebody has sure been stringing you. Why, you
ought to know I wouldn’t double-cross you. Hell, that wouldn’t help me
none.”
“Can that,” said Rico. “Your number’s up, Jew. Take it like a man.”
Arnie’s face got red.
“Listen, Rico, if you think you can muscle into this joint you’re off
your nut.”
“All right, Joe,” said Rico, jerking his head in Joe Peeper’s
direction, “spill it.”
Joe Peeper looked sideways at Arnie.
“The books’re crooked, Rico,” said Joe Peeper; “he’s been gypping you
out of half your split every week.”
The Detroit toughs began to shift about uneasily.
“Well, you two-timing bastard,” said Arnie.
Rico laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “that’s that. Here’s the dope. You get your hat and
beat it. Leave the burg. If I ever hear about you being in town again,
why, I’m gonna turn the Killer loose on you.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “and I never did like kikes.”
“I ain’t any too fond of them, myself,” said Joe Sansone.
Arnie meditated. Rico said:
“I been square with you, Arnie, but you couldn’t stand prosperity,
that’s all. So take it standing up.”
“What the hell else can he do?” Pepi demanded.
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” said Arnie, “I can have a talk with Mr.
Flaherty.”
Arnie studied Rico carefully to see what effect this would have. But
Rico merely smiled at him.
“Getting pretty low, Arnie,” he said, “when you take the bulls in with
you.” Then he paused and leaned forward in his chair. “If you go to see
Mr. Flaherty you better have an alibi because he might ask you about
Limpy John.”
Arnie dropped his cigar and sat staring into space, his hands lying
palms up on the table.
“All over but the shouting,” said Joe Sansone, “somebody better throw
in a towel. But I don’t suppose the dirty bums in Detroit ever heard of
towels.”
“Aw, lay off of us,” said one of the Detroit toughs.
Joe Sansone stared at him.
“Say, Gyp-the-Blood, I bet they think you’re a pretty hard bird where
you live, don’t they?”
Arnie turned to Joe Peeper.
“Well, Joe,” he said, “you sure put the skids under me.”
“Sure I did,” said Joe Peeper; “you thought you could bat me around and
make me like it.”
Pepi laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “you better go back to Detroit with your boy friends.”
When Rico and his men left Arnie’s joint Joe Peeper followed them. As
soon as they reached the pavement, Joe walked up to Rico and said:
“You sore at me, Rico?”
All Rico’s men stopped and stood staring at Joe, wondering what his
game was.
“You guys get in the car,” said Rico.
They all got in except Pepi, who stood with his back against the car,
his right hand in his pocket. Pepi didn’t trust anybody who had ever
been mixed up with Little Arnie.
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” Rico demanded.
“I thought you acted like you was sore at me,” said Joe Peeper; “honest
to God, Rico, I didn’t know nothing about them Detroit bums. I didn’t
know what Arnie was up to. Lord, you know I wouldn’t double-cross you
after all you done for me.”
“Well, who said you did?”
“Nobody,” said Joe, “only it looked funny, and I thought maybe you guys
had got a wrong notion. I’d be a sap to pull anything like that.”
Rico laughed.
“Forget it,” he said.
Rico started to get into the automobile, but Joe took hold of his arm.
“How about me, Rico?” he said. “If I stick around here they’ll bump me
off sure.”
“Yeah?” said Rico; “say, them guys wouldn’t bump nobody off now. But
get in. I can use you, Joe.”
Joe got in the back seat with Otero and Ottavio Vettori. He talked to
them all the way back to The Palermo, trying to get in good with them,
but they said nothing.
IV
The next day in the society column of one of the Chicago papers there
appeared a small item, which read:
“Mr. Arnold Worch, of the North Side, has just left for Detroit where
he intends to spend the summer. He was accompanied by two of his
Detroit friends, who have been in Chicago for a short stay.”
This was the work of Ottavio Vettori. The underworld was convulsed
and thousands of extra copies of the paper were sold. The clipping
was to be found pasted up in all the barrooms, gambling joints, and
dance-halls. Rico and Ottavio Vettori had become famous over night.
Little Arnie wasn’t the only one who left town. Several of Little
Arnie’s henchmen, who had been closely connected with the attempted
killing, followed him into exile. Joseph Pavlovsky, the doorman, who
had driven the car, went to Hammond, where, on the money Arnie had
given him, he opened a speak-easy. Pippy Coke, who with the two
Detroit gunmen had done the shooting, went with Pavlovsky, and they
were followed by two croupiers, who had shadowed Rico.
Arnie’s gang was smashed and the Little Italians took over a territory
they hadn’t controlled since the days of Monk De Angelo.
Arnie had come to Chicago from New York about five years ago. His
reputation had got so bad in New York that no one would do business
with him. He came west with a small stake and was lucky enough to
arrive at just the right time. Kips Berger, also formerly of New York
and once one of Arnie’s pals, had gone broke and was willing to sell
out his big gambling joint for practically nothing. Arnie bought it
and prospered. This gambling joint was in a neutral zone, touching
Little Italy on the south and the vast territory that Pete Montana
controlled on the north. Arnie was acute enough to see his advantage.
He worked hard at his job and in a little while had consolidated his
territory. But he was not a good gang chief: first, because he was
a coward, second, because his closest associate couldn’t trust him,
third, because he was inclined to lose his head in an emergency.
His lieutenant, Jew Mike, was a tougher and more violent replica of
his chief. Between them they bossed the territory, but under them the
gang never prospered and their hold was at best precarious. They held
on only because there was little or no opposition. Their gangsters were
a poor lot and were content to take small splits. On the south, Sam
Vettori was slipping and his lethargy prevented him interfering; on the
north the great Pete Montana was magnificently indifferent.
Arnie had been slipping for the last year or so, and Rico’s sudden
rise had accelerated his decline. Arnie, fearing the worst, committed
blunder after blunder; first, he made advances to Rico, then, getting
Rico’s protection for a thirty percent split, things looked too easy
and he began to double-cross him. Lastly, although he should have known
better, he made the tactical error of trying to get Rico killed. If he
had succeeded his position would not have been improved; he would have
been worse off, because the Vettori gang would have made short work of
him.
No one regretted the passing of Little Arnie. He had never been
straight with anybody. No one could depend on him and he had none of
the qualities that go to make up a good gang chief. The wonder is that
he lasted as long as he did.
Arnie’s fall was the signal for a series of minor tumbles. Jew Mike,
whose joint Bat Carillo and his gang had demolished, fled to the South
Side, where he opened a couple of vice-joints. Kid Burg moved to
Cicero, and Squint Maschke, after a short exile, offered his services
to Rico, who gave him twenty-four hours to make a second disappearance.
With the fall of Arnie’s three lieutenants, the last vestiges of his
rule vanished.
V
Otero helped Rico out of his coat, then, while Rico doused his face at
the wash stand, he sat down, tipped back his chair and rolled himself a
cigarette.
“You better lay down, Rico, and get some rest,” said Otero; “you ain’t
looking so good.”
“I’m O.K.,” said Rico.
But this was bravado. He had slept only four hours in the last two
days; his face was pale and drawn and he suffered from an intermittent
fever. His wound, though a slight one, was not healing properly, and
The Sheeny had warned him that he had better take it easy. Inactivity
at any time was abhorrent to Rico; now it was impossible. His big
chance had come. Nothing could stop him now but a hunk of lead in the
right spot.
Rico, a little unsteady on his legs, stood staring at Otero.
“You’re sure making yourself at home,” he said.
“Well,” said Otero, “I think I stay.”
Rico laughed.
“Listen, I don’t need no nurse. Beat it.”
“No,” said Otero, tossing away his cigarette and starting to roll
another one, “I think I stay.”
Rico walked over to the bed and stood staring at it. If he had been
alone he would have flopped down and been asleep in an instant.
“Think I’ll catch a little sleep,” he said; “you beat it, Otero.”
Otero didn’t say anything. He finished rolling his cigarette, lit
it, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.
“Goddam it,” cried Rico, “beat it! I’m sick of you trailing me like a
Chicago Avenue bull. I ain’t gonna drop in my tracks.”
“All right,” said Otero, “you lay down. I finish my cigarette.”
Rico threw himself on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat. He
put his hands under his head and tried to keep awake by staring at the
ceiling. But in a moment he was asleep.
Otero sat looking at his chief. All along he’d known. Rico was a great
man like Pancho Villa. Even in Toledo when he and Rico were sticking up
filling-stations, he knew. A little, skinny young fellow with a little
mustache, sure, that’s what everybody saw. But everybody didn’t have
the eyes of Otero.
Otero flung his second cigarette on the floor and rolled another one.
Rico turned from side to side in his sleep and mumbled. His face was
white and drawn. Otero got to his feet and went over to look at him.
No, Rico was not well. Otero put his hand on Rico’s forehead. Fever! He
stood looking down at his chief, shaking his head.
“Like hell!” cried Rico; “you can’t hand Rico none of that bunk. No
Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico.”
Otero went back to his chair and sat dozing under his big hat, while
Rico tossed from side to side and talked.
Someone knocked at the door. Otero was slow in opening his eyes, but
Rico sat up, stared for a moment, then jumped out of bed and got his
automatic.
“Go see who it is,” he said to Otero; “don’t open the door. Ask them.”
Otero went over to the door and called:
“Who’s there?”
There was a short silence, then a voice with a marked Italian accent
said:
“A couple of right guys. We want to see Rico.”
Otero turned and looked at Rico, who came over to the door.
“Listen, you right guys,” said Rico, “I’ll give you a one-two-three to
get out of that hall and then I’m gonna start pumping lead. Got it?”
There was a pause.
“Rico,” said another voice, a deeper voice with no trace of an
accent, “you don’t know me, but I’m Pete Montana and I want to talk
turkey.”
Otero and Rico exchanged a stupefied look.
“Pete,” said Rico, “do you know the Big Boy?”
“Sure.”
“What’s his name in full?”
“James Michael O’Doul.”
“All right, Otero,” said Rico, “let ’em in.”
Otero unbarred the door. Rico, with his gun still leveled, stood a
little behind the door, watching.
Pete Montana, followed by Ritz Colonna, his lieutenant, came
in. Montana, in private life Pietro Fontano, was a big, solemn,
respectable-looking Italian. He was dressed very quietly, wore no
jewelry, and carried a cane. Colonna, once a ham prize-fighter, was a
small, bull-necked man with a battered, dark face. His clothes were
shabby and he wore an old cap on the side of his head.
Montana and Rico stood measuring each other. Rico looked small and
frail beside the robust Montana, but Rico wasn’t impressed, for Montana
looked fat and puffy, like Sam Vettori. Otero barred the door.
“Get a couple of chairs, Otero,” said Rico.
Otero dragged up the only two chairs in the room and Montana and
Colonna sat down. Otero squatted on his heels with his back to the wall
and Rico sat on the bed.
Montana took out a monogrammed cigar-case and passed it around, then he
selected one of the cigars himself and cut off the end with a little
gold cutter on his watch chain.
“Mopping up, ain’t you, Rico?” asked Montana, who kept his eyes lowered.
“Well,” said Rico, “Arnie was double-crossing me.”
“He wasn’t no good,” said Colonna; “I was just aching to bump that bird
off.”
Montana motioned for him to be quiet.
“They slung some lead, didn’t they, Rico?”
“Yeah, and I stopped some of it. Nothing to shout about.”
“If he’d’ve got you, his number was up,” said Montana, “you know, I
been watching you ever since you muscled in on Sam Vettori.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure thing. We been taking an interest in you, ain’t we, Ritz?”
Ritz grinned.
“That’s the word,” he said.
“Sure,” said Montana, “you’re on the up and up with us.”
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s O.K. with me.”
Montana looked up at Rico suddenly.
“Any guy that can muscle in on Sam Vettori and Little Arnie is on the
up and up with me. The Big Boy’s with me there.”
Rico smoked and said nothing. But he wondered what the game was. Was
Pete Montana getting soft like Sam Vettori? Could it be possible that
the great Pete Montana was turning sap? All this palaver and softie
talk. Rico’s head began to buzz.
“Look,” said Montana, “I used to work Arnie’s territory myself, but it
slowed down, you know what I mean. It wasn’t worth nothing when Kips
Berger had it, and after Arnie got it I didn’t pay no attention. I got
all I can handle, ain’t I, Ritz?”
“That’s the word,” said Ritz.
“Yeah,” said Montana, “by rights that territory’s mine, get the idea?
I could get all the protection I wanted, but I don’t muscle in on no
right guy, see? Kiketown’s yours, Rico.”
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “I ain’t looking for no trouble with you,
Pete.”
“That’s the talk,” said Montana; then he turned to Ritz: “see, Ritz,
you had the wrong steer.”
“Yeah, I had the wrong steer,” said Ritz.
Montana turned back to Rico.
“Yeah,” he said, “some wise guys was giving Ritz a lot of bull. Ritz
said you was trying to muscle in on my territory.”
Rico thought he was dreaming. So this was the great Pete Montana. A guy
that couldn’t turn over in bed without getting plastered all over the
front page. All that softie stuff was a front. Pete Montana was scared.
“No,” said Rico, “them guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Montana smiled blandly.
“Maybe we can team up on a job or two, Rico. I like your work. The
Big Boy’s no fool and he thinks you’re the goods. Yeah, maybe we can
team up, but I ain’t making no promises. Only this. I ain’t looking for
no split on Arnie’s lay-out. She’s yours.”
“Don’t forget the hide-out, chief,” said Ritz.
Montana smiled again.
“By God, I sure enough did forget it. Yeah, Rico, some of Ritz’s boys
has got a hide-out a half a block from Arnie’s joint. That’s O.K.,
ain’t it?”
Rico’s manner changed. He lost his affability and his face became
serious.
“Well,” he said, “as long as there ain’t no cutting in. I won’t stand
for no cutting in.”
Montana looked at Ritz. Ritz said:
“Hell, there won’t be no cutting in.”
“What do you say, Pete?” asked Rico.
Montana meditated, pulling at one of his thick lips. Otero sat watching
Rico. Caramba! Here was little Rico telling the big Pete Montana where
to get off. Otero never took his eyes off Rico’s face.
“Well,” said Montana, “they’re my men and I’m behind them. If
there’s any cutting in, why, I’ll settle with you, Rico. Christ, no use
for us to fight over a little thing like that. Anyway, if we get along,
I’ll put you in on the alcohol racket.”
“All right,” said Rico, “you and me can do business, Pete.”
Montana got up and offered Rico his hand. They pumped arms briefly.
Then Pete said:
“Well, I guess we’ll saunter. But let me give you a tip, Rico. You’re
getting too much notice, get the idea? You got the bulls watching you.
I know a new guy has always got to expect that, but take it easy for a
while. They’ll go to sleep; they always do.”
Rico admired Montana’s shiftiness, but he wasn’t fooled. Pete was
trying to tie him up, make him leery.
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “a new guy has got a lot to learn.”
Montana smiled blandly, certain he had scored.
“Well,” said Montana, “so long. Maybe I’ll drop down to your new joint
and give it the once over some night.”
“All right,” said Rico, “just let me know.”
Otero unbarred the door. Montana started out; Ritz offered his
hand to Rico, then followed his chief. Otero barred the door.
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring into space. Otero said:
“He ain’t so much.”
Rico laughed out loud.
“Otero,” he cried, “you said a mouthful.”